


for the longest time

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Asexual Character, M/M, Teacher AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 16:58:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13369113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: "I didn't do it, Mr. Scholes.""You didn't throw eggs at me.""I plead the seventh.""It's the fifth, we're not in America, and I'm giving you a note."





	for the longest time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neyvenger (jjjat3am)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/gifts).



> or, according to caitlin: "WORKING TOO HARD CAN GIVE YOU A HEART ATTACKACKACKACKACKACK" (part of my ongoing attempt to see how many things I can stick billy joel songs into) [[music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a_XgQhMPeEQ) \- it's actually a very scheville 2.0 song _to be fair_ ]
> 
> For Julija, who's been one of the most consistently wonderful presences in my lie this strange couple of years, and who never fails to make me smile. You're a lovely person and deserve all the happiness! I know I talked to you about this a while back but I never got round to it till now and I hope that you like it. <3
> 
> Anyone - please let me know if I've gotten something wrong or if anything is uncomfortable. 
> 
> Football prompts - trope, little bits of word and photo
> 
> * In case you don't know your Paul Scholes History, Scholesy actually had (has?) asthma, which added to his general tininess meant that the United coaches really weren't sure of keeping him on, and I Think About That A Lot

If he had a pound for every time he was asked why he became a teacher, Paul wouldn't have to answer it anymore; just pay off all his debts, buy a yacht, and hang out in some kind of a Barbados hotel where there would be no more screaming children forever.

-Ish. He supposes the kinds of kids who can afford to hang out in a Barbados hotel must be even worse than the terrors he has to take care of, although he has no wish to verify this.

Explaining Rolls Crescent is a little easier. It's often the next question and he supposes people expect something like close to home, or identified with the values. Even something like they were the only ones hiring. He tells them and sometimes they break out into an awkward laugh, other times they shake their heads and roll their eyes. "Their uniforms are red," he says.

 

*

 

"It's not that I hate children," he explains in the staff room one day, because Ryan's giving him one of those Looks again. "It's just that I can't deal with them every single day of my life, y'know?"

"You don't deal with them on weekends," Ryan points out, because he's recently assumed the Captain Obvious title. Paul glares at him.

"Five days is already enough for me to consider arson, I don't want to think of seven."

"There're many career advancement opportunities, though."

"You mean to chat people up."

Ryan flashes him a broad, conspiratorial grin. "That too."

Paul's stopped rolling his eyes because he's realised that Ryan deleted the last of his shame ten years ago and judgement has no more effect on him.

"I'd rather die alone than chat up people with you, thanks."

"Come on. Don't you want little ginger monsters running around, terrorising the life out of people with their warped misanthropy, their mum trying to pull you out of your batcave while you devour chocolate digestives?"

Paul swallows. He feels like his ears are burning as he chokes out a grin, the wry deadpan kind that's expected of him even as his heart goes a little faster. "Don't be silly," he says. "I've always been more of a custard creams bloke, me."

 

*

 

Year six isn't something that should exist in the everyday life of the human being. It's the age of precociousness that can sometimes yield funny stories but most of the time results in truly horrible things happening to their teachers, like being hit in the face by raw eggs, or something equally squidgy Paul would rather not think about.

"Jesus, Harvey."

"Watch your language, Mr. Scholes."

"Butt, don't be an arse. Harvey, come here."

"I didn't do it, Mr. Scholes."

"You didn't throw eggs at me."

"Nope."

"Even though I literally just saw you take the eggs out of your bag."

"I don't remember that, Mr. Scholes."

"The box is still on your desk."

"I plead the seventh."

"It's the fifth, we're not in America, and I'm giving you a note."

Harvey Neville looks him straight in the face and pouts. "My dad is going to kick your arse."

"I'd like to see him try," Paul says.

 

*

 

Phil Neville is a nervous-looking beanpole with the kind of blonde hair Paul isn't entirely sure belongs to his face, a long, horse-shaped face that lends itself to many rude jokes Paul will probably send to Ryan if it doesn't go well, and bright blue eyes that seem to be both earnest and incisive all at once. Paul doesn't quite know what to make of him. Then again, given the state of his social circle, Paul isn't the best judge of character.

"Hello, Mr. Neville," is what he chooses to open with. When you might potentially be slagged off by a man it costs nothing to be polite.

Neville looks at him like a deer caught in the headlights, if the deer were pleasantly ambivalent about its impending doom. "Call me Phil."

"Phil. I'm Paul, his form teacher. Thanks for taking the time to see me."

"No worries. Thank _you_ for taking care of my boy. I know he isn't easy to handle, which is probably my fault, 'cause I spoil him, see."

It's unsettlingly – well – _genuine_ , and Paul stumbles, momentarily unsure what to say next. Only momentarily, because being egged isn't something that can be written off with a one-liner admission of guilt.

"Yes. Well. I thought you ought to know that Harvey has had some disciplinary issues since joining us."

Phil gazes upon him with sympathy. "Did he egg you too?"

"Wha – " Paul blinks. "He eggs _you_?"

"We, uh. Kind of have food fights every Thursdays." Phil turns remarkably red when he says this. "Egging is his favourite thing. To be honest, if he's egging you it's probably a sign that he quite likes you."

"I don't want to be liked," Paul snaps. "I want to be able to watch _Rocky_ without personally relating to his raw egg diet."

Phil blinks.

"That's. Um. Fair."

Paul blinks.

"Really?"

"I mean, it's pretty fair for you not to want raw egg in your face," Phil says, very reasonably.

"Oh."

"And I'll talk to him and sort it out and this won't happen again."

"Oh."

Phil tilts his head and gives Paul a long, searching look that makes Paul feel vaguely uncomfortable, like he's being cross-examined by a very friendly beagle. "You seem surprised."

"He said you'd kick my arse," Paul says dumbly.

Phil stares at him for a moment and then bursts out laughing. "Me? Kick anyone's arse? If you threw me into a bin I wouldn't be able to get out for two weeks. I definitely don't want to fight anyone, Mr. Scholes. Least of all you."

" _Least of all you_?" Ryan echoes in the staff room later, once Phil is safely out of the way and Paul is trying to work through this undue kindness. Rolls Crescent isn't exactly the kind of place where you get parents who are not either snobby-nosed twats or gruff men with tattoos who would probably break your legs by touching them. "What does that mean?"

"Fuck if I know." Paul shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at his cup of coffee, as if the harder he stares the more the universe will make sense. It doesn't seem to be doing much at the moment. "You're the expert on human behaviour. Enlighten me."

"Maybe it's a proposition," Ryan raises an eyebrow. "Like. Flirting and all."

"Isn't he married or something?"

"Not a clue."

"You are a sick man."

"Regular garbage bin," Ryan says cheerfully, and tucks into his lunch with far too much relish to befit a tuna sandwich that's been sitting in the common fridge for at least half a day.

 

*

 

In the end it's something so inconsequential that Paul forgets entirely about it; Harvey doesn't throw any more eggs, which Paul appreciates a great deal, and the kids go on alternating between being angelic creatures and demons from the fires of hell, which Paul appreciates a great deal less. One week Charlie actually bites his finger and it is only because of his remarkable self-restraint and grudging appreciation of meme culture that Paul doesn't do any more than make him sit in the corner.

The break for Christmas is perfectly timed (“a Christmas break can’t be timed any way else,” Ryan points out; Paul ignores him) and he’s probably more excited about the two-week break than the kids themselves. He’s already booked Sunderland away on Boxing Day and the prospect of having fun with no one around to piss him off is awfully tantalising (“are you going to have fun with yourself,” Ryan asks; Paul continues to ignore him).

There’s a tap on his shoulder just as he’s heading out of school and Paul turns around to find, of all people, Phil Neville, trying his best to look vaguely polite. Harvey peers out from behind him with an expression that suggests he's enjoying his father's awkwardness far more than he should, the little shit. Paul blinks.

"Can I help you, Mr. Neville?"

"Ah. Yes. I just wanted to thank you for being a good teacher to Harvey here."

Paul opens his mouth in the vain hope that whatever the spoken equivalent of ????????? would come out, but it does not.

"As you'll know we just moved to Rolls Crescent so I'm awfully glad that he tells me he's been having a good time."

Paul narrows his eyes at Harvey, who looks at him with complete innocence.

"Well, uh. Thank you, Mr. Neville. Harvey has certainly been, um, a breath of fresh air."

It is, Paul discovers, very hard to think of how to say what you don't mean. He almost considers telling the truth, but Phil's looking at him with such a wave of relief and cheer that he can't quite bring himself to it. 

"Do you, ah – need a ride to wherever you're going?"

"Oh – " Paul looks down at his kit bag and briefly weighs the pros and cons of being stuck in a metal box with a demon child. "That's all right. I'll walk, it's no trouble."

"It's no trouble for me either – " Phil begins, but Paul has already mumbled a 'bye' and is turning on his heel, racing out of the gate and not knowing for the life of him why he finds so unnerving about Phil bloody Neville.

 

*

 

In another life Paul would have liked to have been a footballer. Wouldn't have minded kicking a ball about for his livelihood. Doesn't really think he could ever get tired of it, the sound of the ball hitting the back of the net, the smell of fresh grass, turf burns and mud scratched along his shins. He dreams about it, over and over again, even when they tell him not to. Even when he knows, rationally, that he can't go backwards and that they can't change the past and that life isn't fair and that sometimes these things happen. False hope, and all that. Making it harder for himself. He feels the fabric of the red shirt and the weight of the crest that settles there. He feels the air stop halfway down his windpipe, his chest constrict, trying to cough out the words I can't breathe. I can't breathe.

 

*

 

They run out convincing 4-0 winners over Sunderland, which goes some way of making up for the fact that he has to stay the night. Mindful of opportunistic pickpockets who'd be disappointed in his wallet anyway, Paul picks his way back to the hotel, trying not to step in the puddles of sick that signal the existence of a nearby pub.

He thinks he hears someone call his name, once, but he doesn't turn around. No one knows him in Sunderland. No one knows him at all.

 

*

 

"You broke your _leg_?"

Ryan grins at him, sheepish. "You really think I'd miss a New Year's Day game against Birmingham on purpose?"

"Yes."

"You know so little about me, Scholes."

In fairness, Ryan only called him after the game, which Paul appreciates, but grave injury, even if it was because of missing steps while balancing a cheese sandwich, is no joke. "You could've broken your neck or summat," Paul mutters, sitting heavily down besides the hospital bed. "Fucking watch out where you're going next time, will you?"

"Please, you'd be relieved if I broke my neck," Ryan retorts, pulling a face. "One more empty seat between you and the teeming mass of humanity."

"I don't hate all people." Paul breaks into a rare, shy grin. "I like sitting next to you."

"Jesus, Paul, I'm not _dying_. No need to get soppy." Ryan scratches at his cast. "Who's going to help you with the team, though?"

The Rolls Crescent Football Team competes semi-regularly with various schools in the area, in the barest sense of the word 'competes' – it's more that little kids turn up in Beckham kits and try to punch each other in the face while Paul inches further and further towards the cliff edge of exasperation. The highlight of each year is the imaginatively-named annual Manchester United tournament, United making up for their shocking lack of creativity (on and off the pitch, Paul laughs humourlessly) by providing coaches and venue.

Ryan usually comes help with the more physical aspects of training, because everyone and their mother is worried that the alternative is Paul suffocating on the grass while traumatised eleven-year-olds look on. It's not entirely inaccurate and Paul, while alarmingly open to the idea of dying on a football pitch, would prefer not to go before Sir Alex retires.

"One of the other blokes, I s'pose," he shrugs. "Denis. Roy. Okay. Not Roy. He'd kill them and then me."

"Eric was thinking about making it a parent-teacher collaboration thing," Ryan says. There's the stupid glint in his eye that Paul hates because it usually ends in him throwing up outside a club on a school night.

"What, one of them lot? They can't even manage their own bloody kids."

"Actually, I was chatting to a couple of them after school and one of them actually has the background for it."

Paul squints suspiciously.

"Who?"

"I don't think you'd mind working with any of them," Ryan wiggles his eyebrows. "Least of all him."

 

*

 

Paul lives in a flat overlooking Hullard Park just off Stretford Road, one of those tiny one-bed apartment types that are barely affordable on a teacher's salary. A shared flat would've been cheaper but for the fact that Paul couldn't trust himself not to break the contract and kick them out for playing music too loud. It isn't too far from school, and most days he walks home; it isn't too far from Old Trafford, and most weekends he walks over. He makes valiant inroads to cooking pasta even though it’s not something he enjoys using his time for. Too often he buys back, and too often it’s from the same fried chicken place past Longsight that’s probably going to give him high cholesterol in the future, but snacking while watching Match of the Day is comforting.

And he likes comforting. He likes it when it rains outside and it's all warm with the heater on and he's got a cup of cocoa in his hands. He likes it when the kids do something unexpectedly sweet and suddenly the classroom turns into a bubble. He likes it when there's an old game on MUTV and he can relive the treble and pretend that he was there. 

Life’s okay. He doesn’t think he needs a lot more than this, a job and a friend and football. He tells himself this enough times that it becomes the truth.

(The truth is that it’s easy to get lonely in a city, even one that you’ve grown up in; it’s easy to walk around and see someone you don’t know and think that there has to be something more than this. There are people holding hands in Hullard Park all the time, and Paul runs his teeth along the edge of his lip.)

"Tell you what," Ryan's offered, more times than Paul can remember. "I'll find you someone nice and you can have mind-blowing sex in a backroom cupboard to get your mind off things. You don't even have to like them. That's the beauty of it."

"No," Paul's said, more times than he can remember. "Not quite."

 

*

 

Most people tower over Paul on a daily basis but he's very aware of Phil Neville's height as he strides across the football pitch, still with that stupid grin on his face and one hand stuck out all friendly. "I saw you in Sunderland" is the first thing he says. It takes about five seconds for Paul to remember exactly why he was in Sunderland, because it's one of those places No One Goes.

"What, the game?"

"Yeah. Called your name, but you didn't respond."

 A vague memory rolls into his head and he finds himself nodding. "Didn't want to look back. It's Sunderland and all."

Phil laughs, a sort of incredulously happy _ha_ that falls out of his mouth like he's surprised by it. It makes Paul grin, involuntarily; he realises that Phil's one of those types of people who immediately put everyone around them at ease even without meaning to. One of those kinds of people you like even without meaning to. Paul doesn't know what that means, or whether he wants to think about that yet.

"No, no. You're probably right."

"Ryan tells me your brother is a coach."

Something shifts in Phil's face but he does remarkably well to brush it off. "Mhm," he says cheerfully. "Works at United. I feel like you might know him, to be honest. You're about the same age."

A half-memory comes back to Paul; one of the lads from early days in Boundary Park, dark haired and darker eyed, wouldn't stop shouting. Something Neville. Crunching tackle and socks that wouldn't stay up, like his own. God, he hadn't thought of that for so long.

He's suddenly aware that Phil's watching him keenly and looks away, flushing. "And you did coaching badges?"

Phil shrugs. "Kind of. But Gary was already doing that and I kind of wanted to do something different, y'know? And then Harvey came along and it was easier to get a normal job. So I just found a PR firm nearby and. Well."

He waves one hand in the air, kind of like a shrug. The kids are running onto the pitch and Paul shoves his hands into his pockets. Other things for other times.

"Lads, you might've heard that Mr. Giggs has managed to do in his leg because he's a twat, so we've brought in stopgap measures. This is your new assistant coach, Phil Neville – "

"Ha, Harvey's _Dad_ – "

"Fuck off, Butt. His identity is entirely inconsequential, yeah? You'll call him Coach or Gaffer and that. His brother's a professional coach or summat."

"Yes, Mr. Scholes," they chorus, and just as obediently Phil takes them out for a drill, glancing once over his shoulder back at Paul. His expression is strange, now, unreadable; it makes Paul pause in his step and wonder. Just for a moment. Then he trips over a stray ball and Butt is stood on the sidelines laughing and everything resumes its spinning, as you do.

 

*

 

Sometimes Paul is late for training and Phil holds them off until he's here, without question. Sometimes Phil offers Paul a ride home, without question. Sometimes Paul says yes, without question.

What they talk about depends almost entirely on Phil; Paul would only initiate conversation under certain circumstances (ordering food, teaching, if his life depended on it), but Phil could talk for England. What's your favourite food – do you have any siblings – what do you like to do in your spare time – when did you start supporting United. Paul thought they'd fall back on football a lot, but Phil is surprisingly well-rounded, and where Paul would ordinarily be fonder of giving one-word answers, he finds it isn't so bad with Phil.

 

*

 

"Hey," Paul says once. "Stop here."

Phil looks over at him but pulls up in front of the JD Sports anyway. "Why?"

"Need to get something."

He gets out of the car and fumbles around the shop, picking up a pair of Nike boots. There's a sweets basket at the cashier and after a moment's hesitation he picks up a Kit Kat, too. "Here," he says as he gets back into the car, shoving the Kit Kat at Phil, who blinks and takes it questioningly, though not unwillingly.

 "What for?"

"I know you like Kit Kat," Paul flushes, staring dead ahead. "Even though it's shite for your teeth."

"No, I mean – what are the shoes for?"

"Oh." Paul turns even redder. "Nicky Butt's boots came apart last week and Denis was saying the family was in a bit of a strop so I thought I'd chip in, like."

He hazards a glance at Phil, who's looking thoughtful. "What?"

Phil starts and grins at him. It's a strange kind of grin. "Nothing."

Neither of them say anything the rest of the way back.

 

*

 

It's loud against Barcelona and Paul rides the wave with all the seventy thousand, dreaming of Europe again, nine years in the making. Nine years ago he hadn't been anywhere. Had sold everything he owned and gotten on a plane to Spain and everything had been worth it. Ryan had been there, too, a stranger who'd grabbed him by the shirt and sobbed into his shoulder and everything had been _immense_ , so tremendous that Paul can still feel the thrumming in his ears. Barcelona again now, entirely different yet horribly familiar, the stretched-out fear of _will we get there_ thumping dully in his heart. Ryan's next to him still. Nine years they've been waiting for this.

Paul sees himself down there, sometimes. Always. Sees himself in a red shirt lining up against Messi and Xavi and Iniesta. Curling a thirty yarder into the corner of the net. Running around, lifting a hand to brush the crest over his heart.

Carrick bundles it in, over the line, Old Trafford explodes; Ryan shouting something Paul can't hear, the players on the field going berserk, Barcelona remonstrating with the ref. Paul slings his arm around Ryan's shoulder and screams, raw, like he's bleeding; _follow, follow, follow, 'cause United are going to Moscow._ They're almost there. They're so close he can touch the grass in the Luzhniki.

 

*

 

The team is a decent team. It isn't going to win any competitions, or many matches, but at least they have fun. And they do improve with Phil's help – Paul sees it in little ways, like the kids being more willing to run, being better in space, understanding the concept of kicking the ball into the net. Ryan's leg has already been better for a while, but Paul's loathe to broach the subject; he's decided he quite likes Phil, in the capacity of a coach, and to his credit Ryan never asks about it. Just pulls a face and winks exaggeratedly every week when Paul heads off to the pitch, which is much less to his credit.

"You were an academy player, weren't you?" Phil asks as they're heading down to Old Trafford for the annual cup, Ryan having pointlessly commandeered a school bus for a twenty-minute walk. ("How will you and your short legs keep up with the kids?" he'd asked, and Paul had kicked him.) "I told my brother and he says he remembers you."

Paul shifts in his jacket and stares down at his lap. "Yeah."

"Says you could've been a great player." Phil's watching him awfully intently; Paul can feel his stare burning his ears. "If not for the, uh. Asthma."

"Don't – "

Even before he realises it he's pressed up against Phil, jaw squared and ready to fight, ready to punch every single kid in school doing their fish impression of rolling on the floor gasping for air, ready to blacken the eye of the lad who sneered _big fucking shot, look at you now_ , ready to be dragged to detention yelling that he was good enough, that he was _good enough_ , while the rest of the boys laughed and turned away.

Phil stares at him. The whole bus is quiet. Paul blinks and puts his fist down, uncurls it from where his nails are digging into his palm.

"We're here," he says.

 

*

 

Phil's brother is almost exactly like him except louder, angrier, and about as high-strung as a kite. "Ay Phil," he starts as he sees them, only to pause, swivel, and storm off in a completely different direction, screaming at another school group. "MISS GOATER WILL YOU PUT THAT BALL DOWN AND CORRAL YOUR TEAM."

"You can imagine family dinners," Phil murmurs into Paul's ear, earning a brief smile.

"Sorry about, uh." Gary turns back to them, scratching his head absently with a pen Paul notices has lost its cap. "That. Um. St Brigid's are hell to deal with. You must be Paul Scholes. Don't know if you remember me. I saw you playing for Boundary Park back in the day. Brilliant. Absolutely – hang on. Okay. Steve – for fuck's sake, Steve, it's a plastic trophy, what do you mean it slipped – okay, Jesus. Phil, you're down for two p.m. against Moorfield and then Crumpsall Lane at three. But you already know that, yeah? What – another call, who the fuck – this isn't even my day job, y'know? Can you believe all this and I've got to deal with the U18s next _week_ – "

Still grumbling to himself, Gary wanders off, leaving Paul with the feeling that he's just about been smacked in the face by a verbal tornado. Phil looks far too amused for his own good.

Moorfield is easier to defeat than Paul would've thought – Butt gets a hat trick and flashes him a grin – but it's a hard-fought two-one loss against Crumpsall, which leaves them hanging in the balance for the game against St Brigid's. They need to win this to stay in the cup and it's not like it _matters_ – it's half a game and it's not like they're going to get sacked – but Paul bites his lips anyway, hoping against hope. It'd be nice, he thinks. The kids don't have anywhere else to go.

Life isn't a fairy tale. Paul knows that better than most. They lose, they play their hearts out and they lose. It's not like they didn't expect it, Paul tells himself as they collect their participant trophies or whatever it is they give out nowadays. And Butt gets top scorer, which is good, except they call her up as _Nicola_ which gets her into a bit of a strop. Another year by. Paul hopes the scouts were watching and even then knows that United won't take any of them in, same as him. Doesn't know which feels worse, having the chance taken away or not having one at all.

"Thanks for coming down," Gary says as the kids are boarding the bus, alternating between looking at them, his watch, and the four phones in his curiously large pockets. "Sorry you didn't win. Don't be too angry with Phil, Scholesy. It's very hard to stay angry and it only gets worse for you. See you in Russia, Philip. Jesus, it's going to be fucking freezing, isn't it. You'd better pack a – are you _kidding_ – Miss Goater, would you _please –_ "

Everyone's quiet on the way back. They disperse from the school in their ones and twos, and Phil taps Paul on the shoulder, jerks a thumb towards his Vauxhall.

"It's okay," Paul says. "I think I'll walk."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Paul's turning away when Phil calls his name. It's weirdly reminiscent of Sunderland, without the extra Northern grit and pub barf. "I'm sorry," Phil says, pink-faced. "If I caused, um, any offence."

"What are you, a Regency novel?" Paul mutters. " _Caused any offence_. Jesus."

"Well, I really hope I – didn't, y'know?" Phil takes a step forward. "I think you're great, Paul, I don't want to ruin anything."

"You haven't ruined anything." Paul tilts his head and stares at Phil, slightly incredulously. "What're you on about? Like Gaz said, innit. Impossible to get angry at you for long."

Phil beams and it gets even more disconcerting. "Oh. That's – great. I'm really glad. I really like you, Paul. And I know season's over and Harvey’s graduating but I hope to – see you – again."

"Uh. Right. Okay."

"No, I mean, I really like – "

But Paul's walking off quick, hands jammed into his pockets, ears burning again as the fresh breeze of spring rustles past.

 

*

 

"How'd you know I – wasn't straight, Giggsy?"

"Well, you sure as fuck didn't tell me," Ryan mumbles through a mouthful of another questionable sandwich that was probably bought off the reduced section in Tesco two days late. "I just sort of figured when you never took any interest in any of the girls I tried very hard to dangle in front of you, ever. I should get a medal for that. D'you know how hard it is to get girls keen on a little ginger knob?"

"Fuck off," Paul says absently, with far less savageness than being called a little ginger knob might ordinarily demand.

"Are we having some kind of a heart to heart now? 'Cause I think this tuna's gone off and I might throw up at any moment, so you'd better make it quick."

"Okay." Paul takes a breath. If you can't say it to someone you've known for nine years who can you say it to. "I'm ace."

Ryan wrinkles his brow. "Well, I know you are, but don't you think that's a little on the side of self-praise?"

"Not ace like _ace_ , you twat. Ace like asexual. Like I'm. Not into sex. And that. I googled it before, it's legit."

 Ryan blinks and puts down his sandwich. Paul takes that as a small victory.

"So you're a virgin?"

"No, that's – " Paul waves a hand. "I've tried it before, it just – doesn't do anything for me. And it always seemed weird because everyone would never shut up about how great it was, y'know? Especially you."

Ryan has the good grace to look vaguely embarrassed.

"But it's fine. You didn't know. I just thought I'd tell you."

"Well, uh." Ryan rubs the back of his head and offers a weak grin. "Thanks for telling me."

Paul grins back, a little shyly. "Still friends, yeah?"

"Fuck's sake, Scholesy, don't be stupid." Ryan leans over and grabs his cheek like he's a baby. Paul is horrified. "I can't – y'know – relate to it, or really sort of fathom it right now, but I'm sure it'll work through my thick skull eventually. Of course you're fine. You're my best friend." He pauses. "Unless you've started supporting Liverpool also, in which case we definitely need to talk."

"God, no."

They take a moment of silence to remember why Liverpool is Bad.

"But you still – like people, yeah?" Ryan says after the beat. "Just – not keen on sleeping with them?"

"Yeah," Paul shrugs. "I guess. Depends on the person, y'know? If they'd still be keen."

"Have you tried asking someone like Phil Neville?"

Paul feels his ears burning again. "What about him?" he asks, leaning back in his chair and trying his best not to meet Ryan's probing eyes.

"Nothing," Ryan draws a slow breath. "Except one day I get a call from his brother who proceeds to talk my bloody _ear_ off about how Phil is distraught because he thinks he's done something wrong and you left without saying anything and he keeps banging on about you and how great you are and will I, as your apparent best friend, please bloody do something about it before Phil starts talking about you being very precious underneath your grumpy exterior for about the millionth time."

Listening to Gary talk through someone else at the exact same speed, with additional confusing pronouns, is even harder than the first time around. Paul takes an even longer moment of silence to digest everything. "He's keen on me?" he finally manages, squinting like Ryan's playing a practical joke.

Ryan sighs. "Look, Scholesy, I'm going to be very sick now and you're probably going to have to take my class tomorrow but for god's sake just call him or something, will you?"

And with that he runs off, even more knackered than any given one of his club nights, and that'll serve him right for insisting that best by dates are a scam, Paul thinks, if only to make sure he isn't thinking of something else instead.

 

*

 

"Well. Uh. Thanks for asking me over."

"Thanks for. Um. Bothering."

“No problem at all.”

“Harvey okay at home?”

“Yeah. Gaz is there.”

“Doesn’t sound entirely okay, that.”

Paul knows that the advance notice that comes with inviting someone to your house means that technically you know how much time you have to clean up, but somehow he’s managed to muck that up as well; dishes in the sink, kit from last week he’s hurriedly stuffed under a chair, blanket still on the sofa telling of how many times he’s not made it to the bed. Phil, to be fair, is very nice about it.

“You’ve got a great place.”

“Thanks.” Paul feels stupid, repeating himself, but he doesn’t quite know what else to say. He jerks a thumb at the sofa and Phil makes towards it, but not before holding up a Sainsburys plastic bag.

“I, uh. Brought something.”

“You what?”

“I bake,” Phil clarifies, waving the bag around. “I made you custard creams. ‘Cause you said you liked them last time.”

“Oh.” This is actually embarrassing. Somewhere in the world there’s an MI6 agent watching this and cringing. “Well, I ordered paella ‘cause _you_ said you liked that last time.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, ten minutes.”

Phil laughs, that clear, wide-eyed, boyish laugh again, and Paul realises all of a sudden that he is, quite without intention or future expectations, in love.

“Phil,” he says, very carefully, very quietly, and probably with more of a stammer than he’d care to admit, “d’you think it’s possible that – well – I might – and don’t feel pressured to say yes, mind – do you think I could kiss you?”

At first Phil doesn’t say anything, just stares, and it really is awfully awkward, and Paul’s thinking of burying himself in a corner or maybe setting something on fire as a distraction, and why don’t they make things that you can set on fire from remote locations just to throw people off while you make your escape, and then Phil’s leant down and is kissing him, light and soft, one hand resting on the back of his head, fingers warm in his hair.

Phil’s a very good kisser, which is surprising, delightful, and probably doesn’t bode well for Paul’s commitment to work.

“I should,” Phil coughs when he pulls back, all flushed and pink again, “I should tell you I think I love you. Or something. Along those lines.”

“I don’t like sex,” Paul says, the words falling out of him in a rush, like a breath when he’s run too fast.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.” Phil grins. It’s a wonderful smile, Paul thinks.

“You’re not weirded out, or anything?”

“Of course not. Why should I be?”

“I dunno. I always feel like people think sex is a huge dealbreaker, and that.”

 “I didn’t fall in love with your face, mate.”

Paul raises an eyebrow. “Thanks.”

“You know what I mean. I just like being _with_ you, Scholesy. I just like you.”

Paul’s never been more relieved, and he was there for the Wigan game. Phil’s hand is still on his face and he leans into the warmth, into something that loves him back for the first time. He’s just about to kiss Phil again when the doorbell rings and Phil’s eyes flick to the door, grinning.

“Paella?”

“Paella,” Paul mutters, half-intending to ignore it.

“You’d better get that. Need to fatten up for Russia.”

It takes a beat for the penny to drop, and Paul stares at Phil. “ _What_?”

“Russia. It’s very cold.” Phil’s laughing at the look on Paul’s face. “Gaz gave me two extra tickets. You might want to tell Mr. Harrison that Harvey’s going to miss a bit of class.”

“God,” Paul mutters darkly. “He’s going to egg me the whole flight, isn’t he?”

 

*

 

In another life Paul would be on the field, so bright and so green in the middle of the perfectly round stadium, white painted lines gleaming where they stand straight. He’d have a number on his back and he’d be running in the game of his life, running without ever being out of breath, running and proving everyone wrong. The sound of the ball hitting the back of the net, the smell of fresh grass, turf burns and mud scratched along his shins. The fabric of the red shirt and the weight of the crest that settles there.

He’s in the stands instead, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat to stop them from shaking because it’s raining and cold. Phil and Harvey are next to him, glued to the game. Gary is further down swearing at John Terry or whoever he’s decided to go after at the moment. Phil’s got his hand in Paul’s coat pocket too, incidentally. Holding on like he never wants to let go.

It’s okay, Paul thinks. Grins. Harvey isn’t so bad after all, and Gary’s just the kind of idiot you can’t help but like. And Phil is the nicest, best person he’s ever met. It’s comforting. Paul likes comforting.

Ronaldo heads it into the back of the net and Paul’s out of his seat with Phil, with thousands and thousands, the kind of perfect moment you replay on the telly for years to come. There’s a way that football never really leaves you, no matter how much you’ve lost. There’s something in the way everything you remember is tied to a game, a ball, a goal. Chanting and dancing in the rain. The scoreboard against the night sky. Someone’s fingers pressed against yours, still, like it’s all you ever needed to be alive.

**Author's Note:**

> \- I've always headcanoned my Scholesy as ace, tbh.  
> \- Asexuality is a spectrum and you can find out more [here!](http://www.asexuality.org/?q=general.html#ex3) I know coming out isn't easy and certainly not as simple as is depicted here, but sometimes it's nice to have fluff!  
> \- Timeline: 2007/08  
> \--- [United 4-0 Sunderland](http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/football/eng_prem/7157355.stm), 26 Dec 07  
> \--- [United 1-0 Birmingham](http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/football/eng_prem/7163892.stm), 1 Jan 08  
> \--- [United 1-0 Barcelona](http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/football/europe/7368730.stm), 29 April 08 - as everyone knows Scholesy scored the [beautiful goal](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2f0lRnnIUI0), but I made it Carras instead  
> \--- 21 May 08 was the FINAL and it was in the Luzhniki that I realised I could spell  
> \- Rolls Crescent is real, distances are real, uniforms are real, school term dates are real because i'm an idiot who cares too much about these things  
> \- Year sixes are about eleven? Scholesy prolly teaches them English  
> \- (I maintain Phil looks better with dark blonde / brown hair)  
> \- Charlie bit my finger reference! Look, I'm hip,  
> \- The info on United's involvement with primary schools is a little sketchy, but I think they did have a sort of inaugural cup this year, and they regularly go to schools / invite schools over  
> \- Denis (Irwin), Roy (Keane), Eric (Harrison) - look at me squeezing in the cameos  
> \- I have 0 idea if parent/teacher management is a thing, but let me have it  
> \- Teachers earn like £20k a year, according to, uh, [cosmo](http://www.cosmopolitan.com/uk/worklife/careers/a33179/average-job-salaries-uk/) ... teachers should be paid more!! There's actually property around Hullard Park and I spent way too much time on zoopla for this  
> \- (My friend lived near that area and we had fried chicken and it was Great)  
> \- Scholesy and Butty used to play for Boundary Park while Gaz was at Bury Juniors (later Gaz joined them tho)  
> \- Phil [loves kit kats](https://twitter.com/fizzer18/status/192212050703949824)!!  
> \- Scholesy didn't have shoes for his return game because he'd given them out to kids or academy lads isn't that wonderful??? then he had to stop by jd sports and pick up a pair of thirty quid shoes that he used in his return game lmao  
> \- All the schools mentioned are real  
> \- Goater is a Shaun Goater reference (Gaz and him are well documented :<)  
> \- YES ITS A GIRLS TEAM betcha didn't expect that / the reason they don't have anywhere t go is because united doesn't have a women's team, which I'm still pissed about  
> \- Scholesy's fav biscuits r really custard creams  
> \- Phil also loves paella... I think Phil just loves food
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
